i've written three "books." two were first person. one was third.
the first person books are my compilations of OCD and too much thought. i struggle through them, tears drip down onto torn pages of frustration and overly furled browlines.
but i know why. it's because i don't want my voice in amid the fiction.
not even a note.
i don't know why i refuse to let my own voice slip into the mind of my characters. maybe because i'm too afraid of what might come out, what truths about me i might accidentally let into the open air.
i don't want to be the one to fill these empty shoes.
it's from reading a book. one thousand gifts by Ann Voskamp. she makes this thing of first person so simple. or maybe so hard yet made effortless by the voice of the King.
she pours herself out.
she makes me think i can do this, truthfully. maybe with fiction, i can make it a little less fictional and a little more real. because this is real life after all.
naught but truth and honesty found here anymore.
so my fiction will be real. my real life will be through the filter of ancient days and past events that never truly came about.
but isn't that what we do here?
isn't that novelling, after all?